


Plow Pose

by Torched22



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, Yoga, self love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24731743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22
Summary: Malcolm makes a discovery while doing yoga that leads to some self love.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Plow Pose

Malcolm is nearing the end of his new Yoga routine. He’s at the last pose before the corpse pose. To stretch his spine and shoulders while rejuvenating his nervous system, he moves into the plow pose.

It’s an inverted posture that stretches the spine, legs and shoulders. He begins by lying flat on his back, extending his legs and arms at his sides - palms down. Inhaling, he uses his abdominal muscles to lift his legs and hips up towards the ceiling and bring his torso perpendicular to the floor.

Cautiously, Malcolm straightens his legs, which are now over his head, and lowers his toes to the floor. To steady himself, he interlocks his fingers, pressing his upper arms firmly into the floor.

He listens to his heartbeat, steady and solid, as he aligns his hips over his shoulders.

That’s when the idea hits him, when he’s face level with his own groin.

The thought is so startling and arousing that he nearly drops the pose. He struggles to regain it, to steady his breathing and relax his heartbeat which has gone wild with the notion.

His mouth has suddenly gone dry and he feels blood begin to pool in his groin, which is not where it’s supposed to be going with this form. He makes a strangled noise, not sure that he can ever dispel the thought without trying it at least once.

“Fuck,” he breathes through his constricted throat. He drops the pose, sitting up on his mat. Sunshine chirps from behind him and his head spins around to regard his sweet bird. He can’t very well do what he’s thinking of doing with her watching.

He stands, corpse pose and ensuing meditation completely forgotten as he pads barefoot across his hardwood floor. Carefully, he lifts her cage and walks it to his bedroom. He doesn’t have the heart to put her in the bathroom and close the door and he doesn’t want to confuse her by covering her cage. So he sets her cage down on the furthest side of his bed, and hopes that he’ll be too far away on his yoga mat in his living room to feel judged.

Once she’s settled, he cuts through the sunlight spilling into his home and returns to the black yoga mat. He comes to it, toes halted at the edge, and stares down. His cock had begun filling as soon as he’d assumed the plow pose and now it pressed against his thin yoga pants, insisting that he move. Do something. Anything.

His fingers moved to the hem of his soft t-shirt and he pulled the navy blue fabric up, over his head. He grasped himself through his cotton blend pants and squeezed, a relieved sigh brushing past his lips. He hooked his thumbs into his waistband and dragged them off his hips. He hadn’t been wearing underwear, so his insistent cock sprang free.

He took several deep breaths before lowering himself to sit on the mat. Some odd niggling guilt tried to bite at his ribcage but he pushed it away, focusing instead on the feel of his ass against the texture.

He resumed the pose, bringing his hips up, legs extended out above his head. His cock bobbed in front of him and rather than keep his arms flat against the mat with his fingers intertwined, he instead used his hands to bolster his back.

Controlling his breathing, lungs being crushed by the pose, he took shallow but meaningful breaths. His cock leaked as he brought the rosy head to his lips. He darted his tongue out and tasted his own leaking slit.

Fuck. He could reach. Easily.

Years of yoga and physical conditioning meant that his body was limber and capable. The fact that his cock was seven and a quarter inches didn’t hurt either. He popped the head into his mouth and swirled his tongue around the glans, licking at the slit, drawing out more precum.

There was something about tasting himself that only turned him on more. He considered briefly what he ought to do when his orgasm came, which wouldn’t be long. Should he swallow his own come?

He groaned around his cock and the vibration sent a burst of pleasure tingling up his spine. Doubling his efforts, mouth watering, he forced more of his length into the warm cavern where his tongue waited.

He slurped around himself, spit dribbling down his chin. Able to prop his back with only one hand, he moved his other to play with his balls. His own scent of musky arousal mixed with sweat and his cologne and the body wash that sat in his shower mingled in his nose. Pleasure rolled through his body in waves and playing with his balls only ratcheted up the intensity.

He hummed and twisted his tongue, pressing against the pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. Closing his eyes, he pictured the forbidden things. The things he didn’t even bring up to his therapist. The scent of blood, the shocking red shout of it. The feel of the weight of an axe in his hand, the crunch as he brought it down.The crisp white of bleached clothes hidden under a fuzzed sweater. The sound of chains. The locks of an impossibly heavy door tumbling shut. The feel of his own restraints digging into his pale flesh. The scent of cologne and tea mingling together. The heat of being opened beneath a stranger’s gaze when he couldn’t bear the wanting anymore. The thought of being used.

His balls drew together as his cock twitched, pulsing into his own mouth. Heady saltiness exploded on his tongue and he let his mouth fill with his own spend before swallowing it down.

Exhausted, he collapsed out of the quasi-pose and lay there heaving. The taste of himself was still thick on his tongue. His heart clattered against his ribcage and he refused to give into guilt.

He liked this and he wasn’t going to feel guilty about it.

Doing this...there was no fear of letting anyone else down. No judgement. No dating. No putting himself out there. He could be here - in the safety of his own home - bathed in the golden light of the morning sun.

He remained there, lying flat on his back, boneless. Sated.


End file.
